


angels are never too distant to hear you

by mysticalmarigold



Series: the year is 1943 [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aid Station, Comforting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Medical Procedures, Whump, World War II, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), angsty, doctor!Aziraphale, field medic, medic!Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-23 23:17:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20348455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalmarigold/pseuds/mysticalmarigold
Summary: The year is 1943. Aziraphale is on the side of angels in World War II, and he is doing all he can do help. His powers are a thing of legend, and every soldier knows who to look for when they’re beyond all help: Dr. Fell.





	angels are never too distant to hear you

**Author's Note:**

> hello!!! i do hope you enjoy this. if you like this fic and would like to get into contact with me, visit me on tumblr @sherman-potter or @boo-tickity  
@sherman-potter is my main, but i will also check messages on @boo-tickity. 
> 
> this fic was based on art by @lonicera-caprifolium and commentary by @artist-in-space on tumblr. the link to the original post is here: https://artist-in-space.tumblr.com/post/186932376117/now-that-im-thinking-about-wwii-i-also-really
> 
> this honestly isn’t very good and doesn’t do the art justice, but i hope you read it and enjoy it anyways. please go visit the original artist as well!
> 
> yes, that is a m*a*s*h reference. check my post history and you will see why.
> 
> thank you for reading and commenting!!!

George Kelly from Ottumwa, Iowa, was far too young and far, far too sick. He’d been operated on after being shot in the shoulder by a sniper and was resting at an aid station when Aziraphale arrived. Delirious with fever and pain, he tossed and turned and cried out into the basically empty hospital. He wasn’t aware of the fact that his infection was as bad as it could be and his body was becoming tired of fighting. He just knew, at the time, that he was hot and tired and needed comfort. He wanted his mother or his brother, or his best friend Johnny. He wanted something familiar that wasn’t cold or bloodstained like his usual surroundings, like the men he killed or the men that had died beside him. He craved something pure and warm and...good. He craved the feeling of something that was, beyond all else, good. 

In a medical sense, it was deeply unfortunate for George that all the medics had left for the moment, as they’d just received a transfer of 6 or 7 wounded soldiers in much worse condition than him or the other soldiers in post-op. It was indeed fortunate, almost miraculously so, that Aziraphale, though only a visiting medic intended to lend a hand with first aid, was placed in charge of the post-operative section of the aid station. Whenever you were short handed, you were short handed and took any help you could get your hands on. Aziraphale was that help. 

Aziraphale had earned a name for himself in soldier’s lore: the Angel of the Battlefield. Apparently, someone knew someone who knew someone who saw Dr. Fell cross behind enemy lines, retrieve a soldier, and return back to the foxhole without a scratch on him or the soldier, like nothing had ever happened. When asked about it, Dr. Fell would only smile and flippantly respond with something along the lines of, “We are all in God’s hands.”

George was Protestant, but he respected this obviously Catholic man nonetheless. Besides, God translated whether you were Catholic or Protestant. At least he thought He did. 

Clicking his tongue at the chart of a dozing soldier, Dr. Fell sighed softly. It had been a long few years, and he was tired. His hands ached for too many miracles performed, and his feet might as well have discorporated. Of course, all of that went out the window when he heard George’s moans and fled to his bedside. 

Out of habit, he immediately checked the boy’s (boy, because he was no ‘man’ yet) pulse. When you’re on the battlefield or in a foxhole, you need to know if the man you’re working on is alive or dead. It’s a fact of life in war. 

George was very much alive, but if left unattended, he may not remain that amount of alive, judging from the fever he was running. His alive-ness would significantly degrade every moment until he was no more. 

Aziraphale wouldn’t, and couldn’t, let that happen. 

As George reached for his newfound companion’s hand to grip, Aziraphale took in a short breath. He hadn’t anticipated the feverish heat that was coming from the boy’s warm hand. His own body was rather cold and poorly cared for. He hadn’t eaten yet at that point in the day and it was quickly becoming evening, nor had he slept for more than 36 hours in these past few months. He didn’t need the sleep, his corporeal form did. At least that’s what he told himself. 

“You’re alright, dear. You’re quite alright,” Aziraphale mumbled in a hushed tone, placing his other hand on the man’s and closing his eyes. His stomach turned as he thought about the things he’d seen in the past few days, past few months. There had never been a man he was unable to save, of course, but it was still disheartening to have seen them in their sorry state before being miraculously cured. 

Back to the boy, Aziraphale. 

Taking a hand and placing it on the man’s forehead and another on his chest, Aziraphale focused all his energy on removing the infection from his bloodstream. It took a moment longer than usual due to pure exhaustion, but he could slowly feel the feverish warmth enter his hands and exit this plane of existence. 

When he was satisfied with the extraction of the man’s infection, he cupped George’s face and looked him in the eyes. George felt  really nice  as of this moment, and gazed up at his doctor with a loopy grin, leaning into the gentle touch of an angel. Aziraphale rubbed a thumb over his cheek and pushed some hair off of his sweaty forehead as George’s eyelids fluttered closed. He adjusted the man’s linens and tucked him in with an extra blanket before pulling up a chair and taking a seat, finally beginning to really take stock of how his corporeal form was reacting to this strenuous activity. He’d never felt worse, yet never felt better. 

Miracles were hard on an angel. They took much mental energy to complete, the after-effects could stick with you and make you ill for days, but Aziraphale wouldn’t have it any other way. To some extent, he felt it was his repayment to these boys for being immortal. He saw them bleed, and his heart bled. It was the only part of him that could. 

He would’ve continued to think, had his body not insisted on shutting down and having himself sleep in the chair at George’s bedside, hands folded in his lap. 

Interestingly enough, he was not there when George awoke. All that was left in his wake was a white linen handkerchief with the monogram “AZF” in baby blue in the corner. 

George kept that handkerchief with him for the rest of his service, and the rest of his life, showing it to his nephew and sister as soon as he got back. A reminder of the man he saw in a fever dream that he considered an angel of sorts. The man that saved his life. 

His guardian angel. 

**Author's Note:**

> hello again!!! i do hope you enjoyed this. if you liked this fic and would like to get into contact with me, visit me on tumblr @sherman-potter or @boo-tickity  
@sherman-potter is my main, but i will also check messages on @boo-tickity. thank you for reading and commenting!!!


End file.
